Fog Poem by Charlotte Dacre

MISTY his face, and rueful to behold;
His eyes like dimly shining stars were seen:
And cloudy vestments did his form enfold,
Like blue smoke curling in the moonlight sheen.

An hazy circlet on his head he wore,
Like that which sometimes does the moon surround;
A vapory wand within his hand he bore,
And conjur'd thick'ning shadows from the ground.

His the delight in early winter morn,
In yellow robes the loaded air to sway;
'Till, King of day, tho' of his glories shorn,
The broad, red sun compels him far away.

Seldom from murky fen or lake he'll creep
In summer, save when dusky eve is nigh;
And then he gains the mountain's shadowy steep,
Or blends, in distance, ocean with the sky.